131 Days [Book 4]_About the Blood

by Keith C. Blackmore

  “And we’ll survive this?” Dogslaw’s cheek flared with pain, and he reminded himself to talk in short sentences.

  “No,” Noll said. “We’re as good as dead. But when I was up there, Dogslaw, something overcame me. It was the need to live. To survive. For as long as I could. Because all those people wanted to see me die. Maybe even some could collect a few coins at my death.”

  Dogslaw listened.

  “But I won my match,” Noll went on. “Worse still, I lived. Lived to fight another day. Lived to piss on the hopes of each and every one of those Sunjan curnos. I realize, now, that the longer I live… well, that angers them.” Silence. Then he said, “And a part of me enjoys that.”

  As his cheek ached and radiated heat, Dogslaw closed his eyes. Sleep crept in upon his consciousness. He fought against it, needing to do one last thing. He looped a strip under his chin and knotted it atop his head. The bandage was crude, but it would keep the cloth pad against his face.

  A part of him couldn’t believe he was listening to Noll, the most depressing man he’d ever met.

  However, down in the darkness, underneath the stone magificance that was the Pit, Dogslaw agreed with every word the man said.

  22

  “That’s enough, y’frightful hellspawn,” Machlann growled, perhaps disappointed in not really having imparted anything new upon the only gladiator standing before him.

  A sweaty Junger nodded, placed his wooden sword on a rack, and went for water. Koba watched him walk away while Machlann glanced up at the balcony and the two men overlooking the proceedings. The trainer shook his head, and Goll understood the message.

  Junger was a prodigy.

  He did everything the trainers demanded of him. He pushed his strength to failing, and even then one had to wonder if he was really exhausted or merely pretending. Junger executed his drills without fault and, at one point, had broken a wooden blade upon a practice man. The Perician worked, and whatever he did, he excelled at.

  So the trainers demanded more.

  Clavellus and his staff seemed to be no longer preparing Junger for the Pit but trying to determine just how strong, skilled, and capable the Perician actually was, though in such a manner as to not injure the man. With Brozz hurt, Junger was the last active pit fighter remaining to the Ten.

  However, Junger had done everything they’d asked for and appeared ready for more.

  With the afternoon ending, a pensive Goll stood from his chair next to Clavellus and stretched.

  “Going below,” he muttered. “Get the blood flowing.”

  “Go on, then,” the old taskmaster said, equally deep in thought. “I’ll keep an eye here. Mind Nala, however. She’s still gushing over those dyed fabrics I brought her. If you give her an ear, she’ll take it. Even show you her designs for robes and shirts.”

  “I’ll be careful,” Goll said, but in truth, he liked the villa’s mistress. He hadn’t had much interaction with her, but the short exchanges they did have left a favourable impression. She seemed to be a voice of reason and calm during a season of madness.

  “Check up on that one-legged Garl,” Clavellus said, his head half turned. “See if he’s settling in… at least a little.”

  Goll hesitated. “You’re good to take him in.”

  “If Borchus said the man helped, the man helped. Only concern now is finding a use for him. Finding a purpose. Everyone needs one. Your man Pig Knot knew that. Why he left, I suspect.”

  Goll did also. After a night of thinking about the Sunjan, he finally, grudgingly accepted the man’s decision to leave even though the idea of a legless house master alone in Sunja’s streets bothered him. He wondered what was happening in Pig Knot’s head.

  Perhaps they’d meet again one day.

  Those thoughts rolling about his mind, Goll left the balcony and his surprisingly sober taskmaster. Clavellus had not partaken of any strong drink that morning, nor did he have anything for most of the afternoon. Perhaps he’d somehow sated himself with his wild night amongst Sunja’s alehouses. Perhaps Nala had chastised him at length.

  Goll descended the stairs, moving past an open doorway where Ananda and Clades’s wife, Kura, were inspecting rich-colored fabrics. The pair talked softly, their voices receding as he moved along the hallways and finally emerged onto the training grounds.

  Some ten strides away, Junger rested upon the sands, head lowered, his hair dark and wet from a dunk in a nearby water barrel.

  Goll didn’t disturb him.

  Muluk and the sullen Ajik stood under the arched roof of the open forge, just past the row of practice men. Ajik was inspecting tongs, sharp cutters, hammers, and even the curve of the anvils. Two barrels filled with metal rods and scrap pieces stood near a dormant hearth, and Ajik took interest in a rather small bellows. Muluk hung back, rubbing his left hand and the severed fingers there. The Kree had his shirt off that afternoon, exposing a hairy frame and the angry pink of healing wounds. Despite all he’d been through, he still looked formidable.

  “Master Muluk,” Goll greeted as he stepped underneath the forge’s shade. “Looks like your wounds are healing well enough.”

  “Master Goll,” Muluk returned and frowned. “Goll. Really, now. Do I really have to call you master every time I see you?”

  “You should.”

  “What if I don’t want to?”

  Goll sighed and nodded at Ajik. “How is he?”

  “Him? Can’t understand a word I’m saying.”

  “Nothing?”

  Muluk shook his head. “Nothing. Watch. Ajik. Where are you from, lad?”

  The man straightened and regarded Muluk and then Goll with an imperious look, slightly irritated at the interruption. His beard had been trimmed right down to the final whisker, it seemed, and while he still wore a gray shirt, he had donned an apron over it. Detecting nothing amiss with the two men, he went back to his inspection of a table filled with metal shards and lengths of thick wire.

  “Seems organized enough,” Goll observed.

  “Oh, he is that. Cleaned and swept the place this morning,” Muluk said with an all-encompassing wave.

  “So I saw.”

  “Taking inventory now.”

  “Hm.”

  “Quiet lad,” Muluk added. “Quiet. Was up before me, and the word from Machlann is the lad was out here before even him. Moving things about and cleaning, Goll. Cleaning. That chimney? Had a damn bird’s nest inside. A nest. Little topper climbed up there with a pole and rooted it out. Then he got about checking on this and that. Testing the blades. Chopping and stabbing and hefting the tools. Rattling the tables and the water barrels. He’s the cleanest, quietest smithy I’ve ever seen on the move.”

  “Isn’t a bad thing,” Goll said and glanced back at the training grounds.

  Junger was standing, seemingly refreshed, and unleashed a blistering six-strike combination into a wooden frame. He was so fast, so fluid, that even Koba, who was positioned nearby the pit fighter, took a breath to appreciate what he’d just witnessed.

  “Ajik, what’re you doing, lad?” Muluk asked, drawing Goll’s attention back.

  Ajik stopped and regarded the man with a stoic yet dignified air.

  “Doing?” Muluk repeated and indicated the tables and tools, fingers wiggling as if conjuring magic.

  Ajik return to his preparations.

  “See,” Muluk stated tiredly. “I can get his attention… but holding it is a problem. It’s like…”

  Goll waited.

  “It’s like I’m not worthy to be here,” Muluk explained, suddenly downcast.

  “He’s ignoring you?”

  “I think. And not just because I can’t speak his language––whatever that is—but aye that. He’s ignoring me.” The burly man shrugged. “I’m thinking this isn’t a good idea.”

  “He seems to be doing fine.”

  “He hasn’t started working on armor or weapons yet.” Muluk wondered aloud, “Not certain what or how he’ll do, then. Wh
at are you going to pay him?”

  “A few coins. Food and a place to sleep.”

  They watched the smaller man putter around the forge. At one point, Ajik stopped and scowled at the walls surrounding the facility. With a grunt, he went back to inspecting a collection of handsaws.

  “What was that about?” Goll asked.

  “Who knows. Might be about the forge. The walls. The armory is right there, so I don’t know.”

  Goll wondered what was going on in Ajik’s head.

  “Doesn’t look like he’ll eat much,” Muluk noted as an afterthought.

  “I don’t suppose.”

  “What about the firewater?”

  “Firewater?”

  “That Sunjan armorer said the man understands firewater.”

  “You heard that?”

  Muluk smiled as an answer.

  “Of course you heard that.” Goll admonished him, “Keep him away from firewater. No firewater.”

  “But––”

  “He’s here to work. Weapons and armor. Not to drink himself senseless. Understood?”

  Muluk quieted, obviously not in agreement. “What about beer, then?”

  Goll glared. “Nothing. No beer, wine, nothing.”

  “He can’t work all the time. Man’s not a temple slave.”

  “Everyone works here.”

  “I’m not working.”

  “You’re an unfit mess that’s on the mend. And you will work once you’re ready. Don’t argue with me, Muluk. Watch him. Keep him on path.”

  Muluk’s face twisted in dislike. Before he could say anything, the guards atop the ramparts yelled, alerting all about an approaching rider.

  “Watch him,” Goll again warned his countryman. “See if you can talk with the man.”

  “I can’t talk with the man.”

  “Well, figure out a way.”

  Muluk rolled his eyes at that, and Goll walked off, not wanting to listen. He approached the gates, and two of the house guards pulled them open, allowing a familiar face to enter. Naulis rode in on a gelding, its sides gleaming with perspiration.

  The messenger slipped off the animal’s back and nodded to the guards.

  “Naulis,” Goll called. “Any news from the city?”

  “There is,” the man huffed, rubbing his backside. “The fighting season’s been lengthened.”

  Goll stopped in his tracks.

  “Heard word of it yesterday,” Naulis explained. “And I checked with the Madea this morning. Damn near killed this unfortunate beast riding here. The season’s to go longer this year than any other.”

  “Why?” Goll asked.

  Naulis shrugged. “Because it’s King Juhn’s will.”

  On the training grounds, Machlann suddenly lost interest in what Junger was doing and exchanged looks with Koba. On his balcony, Clavellus rose, gripped the railing, and stared.

  “This way,” Goll said, gesturing toward the common room. As he walked there, he motioned for the others to join him.

  The masters and trainers made their way inside, toward a broad table. Even Shan made an appearance, emerging from the doorway to the sleeping chambers. Goll looked expectantly at the same door, knowing neither Halm nor Pig Knot would be joining them anytime soon. A pang of loss shot through his core. The men had been the first he’d befriended in the very beginning, back when he’d been mauled by Baylus the Butcher. Goll remembered meeting all three for the first time, remembered plopping down on a bench and telling them everything he knew about a fighter called Samarhead, from the House of Curge.

  He’d been a different person then, but with the same goals—to become the champion of the games, to become a legend.

  Seddon above, he remembered.

  Once Clavellus and the others had settled at the table, Naulis retold his news, stiffening the spines of the older men.

  “Never heard the likes before,” Machlann said, looking to Clavellus. “Not ever.”

  “This is news,” the taskmaster declared. “What of the king, then? What was his reasoning?”

  “None,” Naulis said. “Nothing I was told. The man wishes the games to go longer. His will is law, and all that. They’re also bringing in prisoners from the king’s dungeons.”

  “More meat for the chewing,” Machlann remarked. “That used to be the role of the Free Trained.”

  “The houses will look upon them the same way,” Clavellus said. “What about regular matches, then? Still house gladiators facing house gladiators?”

  “Aye that. Five or six matches a day. Until the end of the season.”

  “Nothing really changed there,” the taskmaster decided.

  “But I seem to remember talk it might be increased as seemed fit,” Naulis said.

  “Why didn’t they have a Chamber announcement for this?”

  “They did,” Naulis reported. “Yesterday morning. All the owners met with the Chamber. That’s what I’ve been told. From the Madea himself.”

  “Yesterday,” Goll said, his face tightening with offense. “We were in the city yesterday. Why were we not there?”

  Naulis didn’t answer, and no one else spoke.

  “You know that answer, Master Goll,” Clavellus eventually said. “You—we’re still Free Trained to them. Still a rabble—and as such, left to hear such news through men like good Naulis here.”

  “Unfit to grace their chamber,” Machlann rumbled, his eyes dark and contemplative. “The gurry of the games.”

  “We’re a house,” Goll growled, lips barely moving. The temperature in the common room, especially the air around the Kree, rose noticeably. “We’re a house. Damnation. We paid the Chamber’s fee to be recognized as such. A thousand gold to be recognized. Muluk was damned near butchered for that coin. Pig Knot gave up his legs. I’ve––we’ve earned that distinction. That title. And the damn respect that goes with it. This won’t be tolerated. Not while I draw breath. How do the regular houses hear such news?”

  “By messenger,” Clavellus answered quietly. “Back in my time, that is. They brought the owners a scroll or such. It’s been many years, so that may have changed.”

  Goll stewed in a very personal poison. “I’ve a mind to go straight to the Chamber. This very moment. Get an explanation and an apology. We’re a house.”

  No one dared to speak, for fear of drawing the house master’s wrath.

  “Let’s wait a few days for that, Master Goll,” Clavellus said, keeping his own voice neutral. “When it’s our time to take the sands again. Wait until then. Let the Chamber think all is well… until then. And then voice your anger.”

  “Oh, I will,” a red-faced Goll vowed.

  “The question now is…” Clavellus said, watching the Kree, “how this longer season affects the Ten.”

  “How will they determine the final eight?” Machlann asked, changing the subject.

  “By a fighter’s overall record,” Naulis explained. “Those with the most victories and least number of losses. They’ll be the final eight.”

  “That hasn’t changed, then,” Clavellus remarked. “But it won’t be the most victories. I have a feeling it will be whoever’s left standing.”

  “Will our gladiators be required to fight the prisoners?” Goll asked, his temper under control once again.

  “No,” Naulis said with a shake of his head. “At least, I haven’t heard of any plans.”

  “That might change,” Clavellus warned. “Houses fight the Free Trained all the time. If they must, they’ll fight prisoners. They won’t like it, but they’ll do it.”

  “With a longer season, might the wounded be able to fight again?” Goll asked. “If wounds stopped them from continuing in the first place.”

  “That’s a good question,” Clavellus rumbled. “Will the wounded be allowed to fight again?”

  “P’haps if they recover in time,” Machlann said. “Why not?”

  “What’s Brozz’s condition?” Clavellus asked the healer.

  Shan thought abo
ut it. “Serious. He wasn’t so good this morning. Felt hot to the touch.”

  “Take care of that one,” Clavellus said. “But I’m also thinking of the Zhiberian. Would he return? And would there be time?”

  “The Zhiberian would need weeks to be fully recovered,” Shan reported. “If he lets himself.”

  “But if he’s mended and willing…” Clavellus left the thought hanging.

  “The lad’s undefeated,” Machlann added, warming to the idea.

  “Torello?” the taskmaster asked.

  Shan shook his head. “Not with that ankle. A month, at least.”

  “Slap on some of that muck you’re always using,” Muluk said.

  That didn’t impress the healer. “That muck is mostly for cuts, and even then, it takes time.”

  “All right, that means we have just the one dog remaining,” Clavellus stated. “Perhaps two or three others.”

  “I’ll fight,” Goll said, drawing their attention. “I’m well enough. I no longer limp. And I’m undefeated, with perhaps the most prized of all scalps to my belt.”

  That surprised the lot of them.

  “You can’t fight,” Clavellus explained with a disbelieving smile. “You’re a house master now. You’re above all that.”

  “I’m a gladiator first. I came to these games with a goal. Baylus robbed me of that goal. King Juhn has given it back. The season’s extended. If it wasn’t, there would be too much ground to cover. I’d have fallen too far behind the main contenders to make the final eight—the final sixteen, for that matter. Now… I have a second chance.”

  Goll rose from the table, looking at Shan. “I want you to inspect my wounds. Tell me what you think, though I already know the answer.”

  Clavellus appeared mortified. Machlann was silenced with disbelief. Even Koba stared at the Kree as if he’d suddenly become unfit in the skull.

  “You truly mean to fight again?” Muluk asked for them all.

  Goll didn’t hesitate. “I mean to become champion, Master Muluk.”

  23

  Vonomir of the House of Tilo strutted toward the rising portcullis, already embracing the rabid enthusiasm of the crowds. Vonomir wasn’t moved by their calls for blood. No fire rushed through his veins. Taking measured breaths, he stayed calm, unwilling to allow the building energy of the crowds to affect him. The current season marked his tenth fighting in the games. He knew how the Pit could fill an inexperienced gladiator with a frightening vitality, transforming a youngster into a hellion upon the sands, capable of splitting shields and armor with one blow. Such sorcerous energy aided a gladiator tremendously at first, but only for a short time. Then a man’s arms and legs became as heavy as granite. Vonomir had seen it many times, where men once battering a foe senseless suddenly had no strength left, their chests laboring for breath, to become unable to defend themselves.